


Times Like These

by J3 (CaseMatthews)



Series: Vintage Tales of ABO [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega Castiel, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2566781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseMatthews/pseuds/J3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole Kingdom of Garrison is ecstatic with the return home of their Princes, Michael and Gabriel. Castiel--the Temple's true omega--welcomes them home gladly.</p><p>But they're not the only ones arriving from Aris; hours later, Castiel's woken by intruders by his bed, alphas touching him and taking him, stealing him from his home...and giving him as a gift to their great warrior, Dean Winchester.</p><p>Little do they know how important omega Castiel is to Garrison. And how far they'll go to get him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> I just watched Troy and this happened. I'm not even sorry.
> 
> Works well with my whole vintage theme so yayy!

Castiel watches from the balcony of his Uncle’s bedroom as the ships wade their way in. It’s a beautiful day; perfect for it, in fact, and he stands there watching happily as the sails flap in the softened wind and gain closer to their rightful country.

It’s been long over a season since Garrison’s two princes left them for Aris—the leaves of the Empress trees are finally growing their blossom back; children are just about reverting back to their entertaining play outside of the walls; Princes Michael and Gabriel are finally returning—and if Castiel’s being perfectly truthful, he would describe his jealousy for his cousins missing the winter. Garrison is never enjoyable with dwindling crop and old men in the temple complaining obsessively of cold feet. Besides. Castiel missed the beach.

“Ah, there you are,” comes a steady, familiar voice, and Castiel turns gleefully to meet with his uncle.

The King of Garrison is a fair alpha—tall, for his echoing age,  kind and patient—and Castiel can’t remember a time where he’s ever resented his company. It was he, after all, who allowed Castiel his position in the temple. Well. He who winks whenever Castiel’s miraculous birth is revised and they celebrate his life as a gift from the gods. He believes it of course. But it was his idea that the young, stubborn nephew of his be palliated in the temple, hidden and forbidden from the clutches of eager alpha suitors. Being one of the two fertile, male omegas in the whole kingdom, Castiel thinks that’s an amazing thing to accomplish.

Not that he doesn’t want to drown in the pools of holy oil from boredom (or a throbbing libido) sometimes. Because he does.

“Uncle,” he smiles, sinking to his knees in respect and obedience (he is still an omega in his King’s presence, after all) and tilting his neck aside for his uncle to pet.

The King has warm hands—chilled, though, in the places of his golden rings—and Castiel trills for him in gratification.

“You grow more beautiful every time I see you, little one,” he says, dragging his blunt fingernails over the line of Castiel’s jugular.

Castiel mewls happily, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

The King’s aging eyes drift, then, floating out over the balcony to join where Castiel’s just were and watch the proceeding fleet. He taps his nephews ear until he stands to join him, crowding in close and tucking himself against the float of Garrison blue fabric at his uncle’s ribcage.

“It’s been a long time, little one,” the King says, eyes drifting out there wistfully. Castiel noses at him. “I’m sure you’re craving your cousins, hmm?”

Uncle always exaggerates time when it comes to his first born sons. One afternoon can turn into a lifetime without them if they aren’t careful, and Castiel’s usually called in to pick up the wide, worried eyes. Their King is aging. It must be hard on his children.

“Always, your highness,” he replies.

Castiel doesn’t turn to his uncle when he feels those early-morning-sky irises blink to him, because he knows Uncle has to do this sometimes. He’s no strong alphaic male like Michael, nor is he anything like the fairer, somewhat childish form of his betan son Gabriel. But Castiel is his sisters only son, and the King loves him. Omega or not.

“Come, golden one. We have some family to attend to, don’t we?” He scents the top of Castiel’s head, nosing gently at his nephews clean and combed (specially for the occasion) hair. “You should dress, Castiel. The new robe Anna wove for you? I know she’s eager to see you in it.”

Of course. Anna’s next in line to dress the Angel’s Chosen One, and what a treat that must be; on the return of her brothers’, no less, how marvellous. Lord.

Castiel knows he shouldn’t complain. He’s a symbol for his Kingdom, a light of remembrance of the Angel’s care over them, and he really, truly does understand that. But there’s only so many seasons when being doused in holy oil, naked, bejewelled in the Kingdom’s riches before the whole thing becomes rather dull. The first few years, Castiel was a terrified toddler and young pup; then a proud young man once his heats came about and no alpha in the palace could lay one finger on him (that lasted the shortest of about two seasons); and now he’s devolved into boredom. A young, very bored, very concupiscent, very ‘pre-owned’ male omega.

And by the Angels, it can be dull.

Castiel finds Anna and dresses in her gift anyway, of course. And she is eager. And it is, really, rather beautiful. Intricate—cut perfectly to accentuate (Anna’s words) the soft lines of his torso and hips—and revealing a little more of his flesh than he’s comfortable with but then again, he’s been bare before the whole Kingdom countless times for the changing of the season, so it’s not all that diligent. Silk, woven by hand with her maids, it’s the perfect shade of rich, Garrison blue—accented by borders of silver and the glossy shells they used to collect as pups by the waterfront of the Great Temple. It weaves with two plaits over his shoulder to meet with a thin, translucent fabric over his right side. It only becomes somewhat thick again when it meets with his hipbones (only one on perfect display) and covers his modesty, before flaring out again around his calves.

She pats him away with his usual Angelic armband (a primped up version of the ones all the Temple-people wear) and the pearl-accented diadem that rests just below the black waves of his hair.

He walks with her to the palace sanctuary and they bow respectively together before taking their seats beside their king. Anna to his left where Gabriel will soon sit, and Castiel knelt on the specially made, silken cushion to his far right. The Palace applauds them—Anna grins and Castiel reveals his throat.

Just like usual.

It’s silent, though, seconds after the proclaimer calls that the ships have docked and their highnesses are on their way. Castiel’s heart starts beating eagerly and Uncle shifts beside him, shooting happy little glances his way that he would only ever let the omega see.

Michael’s the first to arrive. The crowd of people cheer as he makes his proud way through the centre of them, on the raised platform that leads him straight to the dais of the Royalty. The King has him wrapped in a warm, emotional hug just as Samuel walks through the archway leading from the docks, Gabriel two paces behind his mate and alpha, grinning widely and waving to his people. He will have missed them, Castiel knows. He’ll probably spend the next for days or so walking through them as Samuel pretends his mate cares what happened on the official trip to his homeland and didn’t just go for the “fucking amazing food”.

Castiel likes Samuel, and he proves to be one of the few Arisian’s that Castiel’s ever even met. He’s tall and strong (even more so than Michael which Gabriel shares every two seconds and Sam rolls his eyes at every other), well-mannered from his noble place of his own country, but Castiel never really sees him sad discussing it. In fact, Gabriel’s always touching him when he does, or scenting him, offering Sam his own. Castiel considers that maybe it wasn’t such a tragedy for him, being ordered to mate and reside with the second born prince of Garrison. They surely seem happy.

“Stunning, little pearl,” Michael says, and Castiel’s suddenly swooped into standing and tucked at his cousins strong shoulder. “As always.”

“Thank you,” Castiel placates, inhaling one of the few scents of alpha in the whole world he allows himself to gluttonise on. They’re blood, so they feel no attraction, but Castiel’s still an omega. It still aches him deeply to be without another half to his own, and Michael always understands that. “How was your trip?” he asks.

“Wonderful, of course,” he answers swiftly, voice loud enough for the whole court to have heard. But then he ducks as if to scent Castiel, and his voice is wet and perfect when he says, “I’ll discuss it with you later? Come and visit my chambers, stay the night.”

And there’s nothing else to do but nod. Eagerly.

“Cassy!” And another hug, though this one’s decidedly more crushing. “Look at you, huh? Gotta tell me your secret, sweetheart.”

When Gabriel pulls away his hand lingers at Castiel’s hipbone and he whistles as his thumb traces the tanned outline. “Gabriel,” Castiel says, unable to retain the smile. “How was your trip?”

“Very…” he eyes Sam and winks, “educational. How ‘bout you give me and Sammy one night to knot without being thrown around in a boat full of people, and you come spend the night? Sure your scents fucked off out of our chambers, we’ll be missing it.”

Castiel laughs. “Please,” he agrees.

Greeting Sam is short and curt because they’re in the presence of the entire court and tongues wag even about the Angel’s Chosen—but they smile knowingly at the knowledge of tomorrow night. Sam smells good, too. The scent of an alpha and a blood relative in the same bed makes the best sleep medicine in the entire Eastern border.

They pull off from scenting and everyone takes their designated thrones beside the King, Castiel resorting back to his bed.

The speech Michael addresses the Palace with is curt and friendly (of course) and describes the growing trust erected between Garrison and Aris and Sam smiles with him when his own country’s mentioned. Castiel can smell his scent at his side, though. He doesn’t smell true. He never does talking about his own.

 

“Come, sit with me, Castiel,” Michael says—once the greeting celebration has been moved to the dining hall—and he’s seconds from just finishing his speech. Castiel reddens as he stands from his cushion at his King’s feet and the rest of the table comes into staggering view—but of course he obeys his cousin with his highness’ nod. Michael sits him in his chair (odd, looking at people from this angle in this room) and stands behind it, his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, massaging the taut muscle.

“He have great luck, the people of Garrison. The Angels themselves have bestowed upon us the gift of pure life, and it would only seem fair of us to share it. Aris is a greatly developing Kingdom in the east. We can become allies, defenders, friends.” Michael presses a kiss to his cheek. “Now of course we wouldn’t give up our seraph,” the others chuckle, as though such a thought is utterly barbaric. Castiel’s pleased to hear it. “Castiel is a gift to us and us alone, we owe the Angels his protection.  But with him comes the knowledge that the Angels will grant us growth and power and fruitfulness. If Aris will join forces, we will share such a gift. In return for their friendship and elegance, we will offer them everything Castiel has brought to us.”

The room erupts in cheers and the King stands to applause his son. Michael lifts Castiel again and replaces him where he was with a chaste kiss to the lips and the offer of his throat that Castiel scents like a drug, fingers weaved in Michael’s tunic, before taking his seat again.

Gabriel feeds him his supper (Castiel doesn’t enjoy being fed but it’s tradition for the Great Hall) once Uncle has nodded his compliance, and Castiel spends the next forty minutes rolling his eyes and chuckling beneath the table at his cousin. He did miss them. He really did.

“Open wide, cousin,” Gabriel taunts, lowering this specific piece of mid-meal cheese for the fourth time and actually expecting Castiel to fall for it _again_. Castiel ignores him. “No really, come _on_ , I’m done, I’m done, here.” Castiel tilts an eyebrow and stays stoic. “Aw, little one, I was playing with you. Here, eat it.” No. Nothing. “Cassy, please?”

He offers an aggravated (silent, obviously) sigh and frown up at his cousin, scowling to show he means business and if he does it one more time he will never scent mark his chambers again—but he does lean, very slowly, up to Gabriel’s hand, opening his lips just slightly.

No sooner does the square move within one centimetre is it whisked straight away again and it’s holder clutches his gut, bent over laughing and slapping his knee.

Castiel huffs, raises his eyebrow to say _‘never again, cousin’_ and shuffles to his other side to peer up at Uncle and hope he’ll offer something again.

“Aw, don’t be like that Cassy, come on,” Gabriel says, voice uneven with laughter, and Castiel can hear Sam chastises him with,

“Stop teasing him,” but he utterly ignores them both.

Right. Well. He didn’t miss him that much.

“Uncle?” Castiel mutters, once the King’s finished his conversation with Joshua and Castiel assumes it’s okay to ask again. “Will you feed me, sir?”

Uncle’s eyebrows dip like they sometimes do—not in anger or annoyance—more just dipping and angling up like Castiel’s three again and just discovered how to tie his own robe. Castiel offers a sheepish smile and receives a patted invitation for his efforts, a hand on his King’s thigh, and Castiel rests his head there happily. Yes. This is definitely much better than putting up with Gabriel’s teasing.

“Thank you, sir,” Castiel purrs into his King’s robe, nuzzling his nose when he’s offered a grape.

“Gabriel’s too cruel to you, pearl,” he pets, his thin, worn fingers soft as they make their way through his hair. “You shouldn’t go to him.”

“Mmm,” Castiel agrees, shooting a glare over his shoulder.

Gabriel shrugs completely unapologetically, grin still wide and very much in place, but at least Sam flicks him. That counts for something at least.

 

After the meal, Castiel goes back to his own chambers at the centre of the temple and performs his nightly duty of lighting the Angel’s Candle (a four wick, golden gift hundreds of years old), offering his prayer in Enochian the priests and scholars hum along to, and then offering his throat for them to scent as his own gift from the Angels. An omega to scent and treasure, wonderful. Some of them kiss him (on the lips, cheek or the back of his hand, never his throat) and some prayer before him, but most just nudge their cheeks alongside his, sharing scents.

He needs a wash after this, always does.

And by the time he’s finished, dressed in a new, comfier robe and smelling like a fresh little omega, he’s far too tired to do anything else and he’s asleep—draped over the same alter where he’s sometimes made to stay as retribution (when Anna caught him… _touching_ himself whilst out of heat, or when he and Samandriel were discovered unrobed in the washhouse because it was the boys first heat, for Lord’s sake) and as a reminder of his status; always on the changing of the season because he’s their offering.

 

Castiel jolts awake when the scent of foreign alpha hits him; like a ton of bricks. Omegan instinct make his eyes snap open and his head jolt up, and then he’s staring into the gaze of an utter stranger. But not just that…an utter _foreigner_. A foreigner in Garrison, in the _temple_ …

This will not be good.

“Fuck, look, he’s awake,” the alpha says—female, but no less terrifying—reaching out a dirt-stained hand as though she’s about to stroke his face. He flinches back on instinct and scuttles as far away as he physically can, his back colliding heavily with the Angel’s paintings Samandriel painted as a gift to the temple after sullying his ‘saviour’ (poor boy), but the alpha keeps coming, brown eyes narrowed and humoured as she approaches, gaining on him, oh Lord…

“You can sleep through anythin’ there, omega,” another says, another alpha and another foreigner, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong—

“Who are you?” he finally urges the courage to say, voice only slightly less terrified than he feels. “You…you can’t be in here, the temple…”

“Aw, he really doesn’t know,” the female says, reaching for him again and poking stern fingertips to the side of his temple. He doesn’t dare knock them away. Coward. She smells wrong, wrong and not Garrison, not good, not good… “Well, you’re coming with us, sweetheart,” she says, and then her hand’s under his bicep and hauling him standing, yanking him up with her so hard that he falls against her side, whacking his nose against her breastplate and yelping at the sharp, sudden pain. “Hey there, omega. You eager or somethin’?”

No. Lord no, not for _you_ , never for you…

“No,” he hisses, tugging futilely at the grip. “Get _off_ …”

“Hush, handsome, there we go,” she shushes, and Castiel wants to throw up his food when her hand laces to the back of his head and pushes there, gripping the scruff of his neck until his body drops somewhat against hers and he’s forced—by his own _body_ —to obey. It’s an awful, horrifying experience. No one’s allowed to touch him like that accept the King and Michael, and that’s only ever to soothe him if he’s irate, or…or…in _heat_.

She shouldn’t be touching him. She shouldn’t be _touching_ him.

But either way, he’s dragged along in her grip, the other alpha following close behind until he closes the space lewdly and grabs handfuls of Castiel backside in his hands—he mewls pathetically but there’s nothing he can do. His body’s as relaxed as it will ever be, even if his brain’s about ready to curl up and sob and his hearts beating like a jackrabbit inside his chest.

She pushes him from the heavy Alter-room door and—

Oh… _oh no_.

Oh, please no, this…this can’t be happening.

Castiel’s just…he’s just having a nightmare, that’s all this is. He’s just dreaming in Michael’s bed and he’ll wake and his cousin will soothe him with his hand where _hers_ is and assure him that the priests aren’t all dead and the temple’s floors aren’t bathed in their blood. He’ll laugh at Castiel’s imagination and they’ll scent each other’s clean bodies before drifting off back to sleep again.

Only…only this is real and…

They’re dead. They’re all dead and the temple’s floors _are_ slick with their blood, the alpha woman’s leading him straight through a puddle (Inias, it’s Inias, _brother_ ) like there’s absolutely nothing wrong…

Castiel tugs futilely at the grip and keens high up in his throat, terrified, closing his eyes against the onslaught of emotion.

“They were all trying to guard you, you know,” the alpha says, the one still moulding Castiel’s backside. “Protect the pretty little omega tucked away all safe. It was cute really,” he hisses into Castiel’s ear, “how much they wanted to save you. Handsome little male omega, mm,” he pulls Castiel’s tunic up until calloused fingers meet with the soft flesh of his thighs. “Can’t blame them.”

“Knock it off, Christian,” the female clips, once they’ve finally broken out into the morning sun (it’s morning, Castiel should have awoken by now without this _foreigners_ incentive. Should have helped them…). “This one’s not for you.”

There’s more blood outside. More of his friends, the same betas and alphas that scented him and kissed him last night, all of them, every single one, dead.

The female leads them down the steps—Castiel holds in vomit when he has to step over someone’s decapitated head, he doesn’t dare look who—and onto the sand of the beach. The same beach Castiel has played on since his first days: with the King, his cousins, his friends. But this isn’t that same beach. This is…this is hell.

Ships, foreign ships, are docked and anchored out in the sea—long boats and sail boats pulled up on shore and leading haphazardly to leather tents, pitched as far as the eye can see across the horizon. So many of them. So many threats, so many alphas and she’s leading him right to them, right to the wolf’s door—weaving between tents and when Castiel turns even just slightly, he can see the walls of his Kingdom. It looks so distant from here, so far out of reach it would surely be impossible to even consider—

“In here,” the female sighs, leading him into a bigger tent than the others, slightly bigger but still rugged—not like the white linen further on. A ruffian then. An alpha to entertain and present for, to offer his hole for…for…

 _Oh Lord, please don’t make me do this,_ please…

“Please,” Castiel sobs, once the woman’s hand has left his throat and she’s tying him up to a post in the centre of the room, sat on the dusty-fabric floor and sobbing now, weeping for his own ignorance. “Please just—”

He stops talking when she slaps him. He doesn’t utter a word when she leaves, doesn’t make a murmur when he hears whistles outside the tent’s flap. He sucks in the wimper because he is royalty, goddamit. He will not…he won’t…

Nothing else matters when he steps in.

Everything turns to nothing in the blink of an eye when the man—alpha—walks into the tent and matches the belongings, his scent, his tent; and lifts an eyebrow over perfectly emerald eyes when he spots Castiel.

Slick with blood (could be Inias’, could be Hannah’s), he palms his messy hair, and says, “Yeah? And who the fuck are you?”


	2. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, watched Troy again, this is what happens....I think I have an obsession.
> 
> Anywho, enjoy Chapter 2!!

The palace sanctuary falls suitably silent as Michael makes his way inside.

 He understands, maybe more than most, what a sight he must make; armour soaked in blood—foreign and his own, though for now he feels no pain—and reeking of the adrenaline soldiers usually carry just moments passing their crowning victory or defeat. Let alone, he’s their _prince_. He shouldn’t smell like this. He shouldn’t be entering hallowed grounds to desecrate the floors with his own short becoming’s. He should clean. Wash himself. But right now, nothing as trivial as scent is stopping him from marching his way straight down the platform to take his place on the dais, standing stoically beside his wide-eyed father. Michael doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“We are under siege,” he says instead, simply, addressing the entire court of his father’s men, lined in chairs down both sides of the room in their respective colours or pins. Michael offers every single one the contact of his gaze, before turning back slightly and nodding for his father. The man nods back and relaxes slightly in his throne, eyes still worried and scent still tainted. Michael cannot worry about such things right now. He looks back to the room. “The Seraph has been taken,” once again, Michael can’t worry for his father’s choked gasp, or turn to offer the dated man comfort. He will. But he will not display the man’s weakness’s for the entire court to bear witness. He owes his father more than that. “The temple has fallen. The beach has been declared.”

Michael turns his bare gaze on Samuel when he utters his next few words, offering his betrayed trust and showing he will surrender nothing for the likes of his brother’s heart for the safety of his people. The alpha meets his observation and dips his head just slightly, but Michael understands. He _knows_. “Aris is on our shores, and she is fighting our men, killing our priests and _stealing_ our saviour.” He pauses for the audible gasps around the room. “We cannot stand for it. If they want war, we give them war. I’d match the best of Garrison against the best of Aris any day.”

Michael glares when Zachariah stands, his robes spotless and tidy and it sets Michael’s teeth on edge. He smirks back at him and Michael holds the growl trapped beneath his teeth. It will not do to start a second war of the day. No more men deserve death for this hour. “The best of Aris outnumbers the best of Garrison, two to one. We could never beat them. And I don’t think we should be discussing this in the presence of an Aris native.”

“What would you suggest, Lord Zachariah?” Michael sneers, offering the beast of an alpha his teeth, ignoring the comment aimed at Samuel. “Allow them entry into the Kingdom? Let them keep our omega?” He scoffs at the idea. “We have no other choice.”

Zachariah doesn’t even flinch. He shrugs. “I suggest diplomacy. As much as losing poor Castiel is an… _upset_ ,” Michael’s throat rumbles in a growl, “we cannot risk the lives of the whole city for that of one small boy. It isn’t right.”

Michael snarls down at him, ignoring the hiss his father awards him, the narrowed glare Gabriel pins his way because no-one, _no_ - _one_ , threatens Castiel—present or not—and gets away with it. Not where Michael could stop them. Not Zachariah. “That _small boy_ is the reason we’ve grown so fruitful as a nation, _Lord Zachariah_ ,” he spits, marching down the steps and stopping before the alpha’s specified pulpit. “Retrieving the Prince isn’t a question of doing or not, we will regain his company, or the whole city will burn. There is _no_ question. Either way, the Kingdom falls; the angels will not be pleased with us losing their treasured gift, and if we lose the war, we all die anyway. Castiel will be returned to us. That is all on the matter.”

Michael turns back to his father, eyes flitting knowingly to his young cousins currently vacated cushion and a bitter emotion pangs in his chest. The boy was meant to accompany him last night, visit him in his chambers to keep his attention and warm Michael’s sheets. He had allowed the boy his rest when he’d been to check on his whereabouts, he’d allowed the young thing to continue his rest on the stone alter and he had left. It is his fault Castiel is captured. His fault he now resides with those…barbarians. Michael will get him back. One way or another.

“Your highness,” Zachariah’s voice echoes again, and Michael turns back to bare his frustrated expression. The Lord smirks again. Michael will kill him. “We cannot simply entrust in the Angels. The Arisian’s either know the importance of the boy, or they don’t. He is an omega, after all. He will be coveted within them, whether for his Angelic attributes or his… _other_ …attributes.” Even the King growls at that one, Gabriel’s echoing them both, but the bastard keeps on, “If we told them. If we let them know the status of their captive, they may just leave and take the child. Surely, Michael, the life of one does not outweigh—”

“That is not the point, _sir_!” comes a booming voice, and Michael spins in surprise to see his father standing around his growl, hissing down at the betraying alpha. He comes storming down the steps quicker than Michael has seen him move in almost four seasons, he’s sure. He shares a glance with his brother, and Gabriel quirks a brow. Michael notices Sam’s sheepish expression and narrows his gaze on the knowledgeable man. “Castiel is my nephew and our gift! He is not a bargaining chip, he is not a negotiation; he is a little omegan boy and we owe it to him to allow his safety! After what he’s brought to us in his short life, in the very least, we owe him that! So shut your mouth, Zachariah, or _leave_.”

Zachariah sits, teeth clicking with the force, and his sour scent tinges with his embarrassment. His anger. Michael will remember this.

“We have the best archers in the Eastern border,” Gabriel mentions, standing also. He runs a hand down the length of Sam’s thigh before stepping off and moving away. With Gabriel’s trust in the Arisian alpha, Michael awards the man his own—even ignoring the alpha’s hatred of the place, “Our soldiers are renowned worldwide, and our walls have never been breached, even before Castiel. We can defend our own. We will have to. And we will.”

Michael loves his brother, there is no doubt. But as of this second, Michael _adores_ him.

The court agrees. They plan their attack next morning.

 

“I will return him, father,” Michael vows, resting his forehead upon his father’s own. The alpha claps a hand to his shoulder in repeat, pulling him in and scenting his son’s salted flesh, tainted with blood and sweat from the fight. “I will return him alive and whole, or I will murder every single man on that beach. I swear it by the Angels.”

“He must be so lonely,” the King ensues, tucking himself closer. Michael accommodates willingly. “He never did favour strangers.”

“I know, your highness,” Michael soothes.

Castiel was good for all of them. Michael returning him isn’t simply for the boy’s own sake, though the base notion of the poor little thing trembling from fear of punishment or… _rape_ (Michael will murder them all if one hair is misplaced on his love’s sweet head) makes him want to kill something. Michael doesn’t want to imagine just how long the King will last if he isn’t greeted by his favoured omega once more.

“I will bring him back. I promise.”

+---≡≡≡≡†Ѱ†≡≡≡≡---+

“Did you not hear me, little one?” the alpha says, and for the first time since he entered the tent, Castiel looks away. Marring his attention from the dirtied planes of the alpha’s body as he undresses; Castiel spots one slip of backside, and his gaze skitters to the dust ridden floor. It is young and immature, turning away for something as simple as nakedness; let alone _dangerous_ , considering what this man has done, what Castiel has seen. But the omega doesn’t wish to be accused for anything. Not like…not like with the female.

He doesn’t reply, though. The alpha doesn’t need to know his name. Instead, like the idiot he’s proving himself to be, he glances up again and says, “You killed the Angel’s priests.”

The alpha smirks at him and Castiel looks away again. Castiel spots him shrug in the shadows of his side-vision, a somewhat playful gesture as he slips a thick black skirt around his hips and ties it off. His torso is still stained in blood and dirt, Castiel can spot that from here. He should clean before dressing, surely?

Barbarians. Maybe they simply don’t clean.

“Well,” the alpha says, voice somewhat light, considering. “I’ve killed alpha’s in every country on the Eastern border. Priests…” Castiel notices his rub at a blood specked chin. “No priests.”

Castiel gulps, before his mouth speaks for him again. “Then your men did.” His voice is damp, weak, but he speaks anyway. “They slaughtered them in their own temple. The Angel’s will have their vengeance.”

“Oh?” the alpha says, teasing again. But not like how Gabriel teases him sometimes, that was always more or less harmless. This…this feels more like the spider teasing the fly. And Castiel is trapped thick in the web. “Then pray tell, little temple omega, where are they now? Where were they when the temple fell and you precious priests’ blood was spilt, hmm? What are they waiting for?”

Blasphemy. He can’t…he shouldn’t say such things, he shouldn’t _risk_ such things. The Angel’s determine the length of a man’s life, his destiny and his fate. This alpha is practically signing his own life off, he shouldn’t…but really, who is Castiel to advise him? If this Alpha were struck down right now, Castiel would have a chance to run, to return to his family, to Michael.

He will pray to the Angel’s for this man’s fate.

“The right time to strike,” he spits instead.

The alpha just laughs at him.

“Yes,” he says lazily, wandering over to a raised water basin and clutching at a sodden cloth within its confines. He brings it to his chest and scrubs, though it does little to clean the muck. “I’m sure they are. Let me know when they do, will you?” He chuckles to himself a little longer, all the way through cleaning himself off, scrubbing at the dirt and blood with nothing more than water and it takes longer than it maybe should. But he’s tanned beneath the grime, muscles rippling as he manoeuvres himself around the tent, about as fit as Michael when he’s training with the other men, and Castiel snaps his gaze away when the alpha glances his way. He chuckles again.

“What’s your name?”

Castiel remains stubbornly silent. He flinches back, a whimper caught in his throat, when the alpha kneels beside him, and for the first time, Castiel notes the wicked blade clenched in his grip. He flails, slightly, tugging on his confines and pulling on the pole to his back, offering the stuffy tent his high pitched keen, whining when he feels dry, spit slick lips connect with the skin of his throat.

“Hush, little one,” the alpha says. The words are taut against Castiel’s flesh and a thick shudder pulses through him. The alpha’s scent is strong here, like this. It makes him flinch. “You’re safe here. You’ve been very brave, don’t ruin that now.”

He’s teasing again. Taunting him. But this man has a blade hidden from Castiel’s view, he has his hands near him, his threat close by, so Castiel doesn’t bite into it. He keeps fighting like Michael taught him. He keeps fighting until the ropes binding him split down the middle and his torso wrenches away from the wood.

He’s startled for a second, before he realises, and his gaze shoves its way to the alphas as he throws himself away, crawling to turn and stare at him.

The alpha smiles where Castiel resides on his backside, balanced up by his hands, trembling, and he stands. Castiel watches him.

“Name,” he says again.

“Emmanuel,” Castiel replies instantly. “I’m a scholar of the temple,” of course he’s not, he’s an omega, a _male_ one at that—but Sam says some Kingdom’s don’t find omega’s rare at all, even the male ones. Hopefully this man doesn’t know Garrison’s nature.

He can’t risk them finding out his true heritage, if they don’t know already. And Castiel suspects they don’t. The alpha didn’t even know his name.

The alpha’s brow lifts, non-believing, but he doesn’t question it. He does, however, say, “So. Royalty?” and Castiel cringes, silent. “You’ve spent all those sixteen summers accustomed to alpha’s, you must be royalty.”

Castiel doesn’t reply.

It takes a second, before the alpha smiles again, and turns away, back to his basin to return his blade in the pocket of his tunic. Castiel watches it disappear like a hawk.

“Dean,” he says idly, quietly enough that Castiel barely catches it, but loud enough that he does and his blood runs cold. “Dean Winchester.”

Castiel’s feet are scampering beneath him before he can even consider himself, hauling his trembling body to standing and shoving it towards the flap of the tent, dragging him behind and practically diving to the strips of leather, a taut, desperate mewl escaping him before he’s shoved back and pinned against the dusty floor. He blinks, clearing the pain from his eyes, and takes a second to realise Dean ( _Dean Winchester_ , oh Angels, please Lords) is knelt above him, holding him to the floor—a hand clamped at his mouth—with an amused expression lighting those deadly eyes. It takes Castiel a second to realise he’s actually _on_ the floor. He starts keening when Dean leans close again. He starts bucking.

“You’re safer inside of this tent than you are out of it, omega,” he says quietly, muttered into Castiel’s ear. He mewls deeply and cries for his cousins, his King when Dean slips his legs over the top of Castiel’s hips, holding him down, holding him stable. Straddling him. He cries for his loss beneath Dean’s hand. “Are you scared, omega?”

Castiel’s released, his mouth freed, but his arms are subjectively pinned after that, wrists held at his ears.

He gulps.

He shudders.

He says, after a huff of sobbed out air: “Should I be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are lovely, just so you know :D  
> Encouragement. I'm a deprived little soul.


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